


Ice

by helens78



Series: Frantic [4]
Category: Velvet Goldmine RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Ice Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-20
Updated: 2003-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon didn't get what he wanted tonight, but he doesn't waste the evening, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice

_Christ, this hurts._

Jon pushes his door open and then kicks it shut behind him, slumping back against it with an irritated groan. _Stupid fucker. Didn't listen. Should have listened._

 _My own fault. Should have tried a little harder._

Another long sigh, ending with the definite drooping of shoulders. Jon's head falls back against the door, and his eyes focus on the ceiling. Another reason not to trust people; he files it away as future reference and pulls away from the door with a grimace. _I knew better._

All right, that's quite enough of that. Jon tosses his jacket over the back of one of his bar stools and heads around the counter into the kitchen. He pulls a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and drinks about half of it before straightening up and putting the bottle up against the side of his neck. He's going to have a big fucking bite mark for a week or so, which he'll end up covering with turtlenecks, probably. There are marks you want to wear and rub at until they're gone; there are marks you just want to have disappear.

Ice. Ice would help. Jon gets a cloth napkin out of the drawer and puts some ice in it, then holds it up to the bruise on his neck. He sighs again and staggers out of the kitchen, reminding himself that it could always be worse.

The worst of it is that he isn't even going to remember the bite in the morning. He's not sure he even remembers the man's name. Brian? Barry? Ben? Something with a B. There was nothing about him that made an impression. Nothing except teeth, and teeth that bit too fucking hard and didn't know when to quit.

Back in the bedroom, Jon puts the ice down for a minute before peeling out of his clothes. They stink of sweat, sex, and blood. So does he, and he can't just fall into bed like this. He sighs and goes off to take a shower. A very fast, very cold shower.

Out of the bathroom, shivering, Jon picks the ice up again -- only a little melted -- and presses it to his neck. He falls into bed, staring up at the ceiling again.

His skin is cold; his hands are cold. He keeps staring at the ceiling anyway, and he wraps his hand around his cock, tongue flicking out over his lips. It could have been better in so many different fucking ways. Brian-Barry-Ben could have known what to do with his teeth. He could have left a row of perfect little pink crescents all the way down Jon's arm, ending at the inside of his wrist, something Jon would have covered with his big silver wristwatch, something that would have had him checking the time over and over for the next few days. That would have been nice.

Jon's stroking himself now, and the disappointing, cold-leftover-pizza-bad orgasm has faded out of his mind completely. He's not feeling the bite anymore, but he _is_ feeling the ice melting under the napkin. He's feeling the cold against his neck, the cold against his fingers. He tugs at the napkin and lets an ice cube fall onto his shoulder; hisses at the contact of cold, melting ice on his skin. He puts the napkin back in order and then grabs the ice cube from his shoulder and slides it down his chest. _Fuck._ Cold, yeah, but good -- _very_ good. He draws it across his nipples -- scratches hard at at his left nipple, drawing a slight groan from himself, before sliding the ice across it.

A soft panting moan comes out of his throat in a stuttered rhythm; he drags the ice down further, over his left hip, and then slides it into the groove of his inner thigh. _Jesus._ Too much. Almost too much. He's still stroking himself, gritting his teeth and panting out breath as silently as possible.

It doesn't take long, but the ice melts faster as his skin heats. The cold and the sharp rhythm of his hand have him panting, gasping, and then coming with hitching, almost delicate movements as his hips thrust up, streaks painting the lower plane of his belly.

It takes a few seconds for him to get his eyes open afterwards. The ice is stinging against his thigh. He drags it up, across the skin of his stomach, pulling a trail of white across his chest. Up over his throat, then, across his lips, and Jon slips the last sliver of ice into his mouth, letting it melt and tasting himself all over it.


End file.
